


Absolution

by semaphoredrivethru



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sex, first person POV, implied sado/masochism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:20:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semaphoredrivethru/pseuds/semaphoredrivethru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I kiss my way down his neck, moving my lips to silent endearments that honestly have no place between the two of us. What we have, what we share is passionate, at times nearly violent and often raw with need... but never before has it been tender.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absolution

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even remember when I wrote this, but it was aaaaages back. I hope you all like it! Originally it was all in italics, but now I look at it and it makes me think "borked HTML" so that's been fixed. Otherwise, unchanged.
> 
> Beta by all_booty

I kiss my way down his neck, moving my lips to silent endearments that honestly have no place between the two of us. What we have, what we share is passionate, at times nearly violent and often raw with need... but never before has it been tender. I'm not sure I'll even be able to keep this gentle touch I'm using now, but I'm planning on trying anyhow. Because I've never heard him make these sounds before and they're going straight to the pit of my stomach in a new and delicious way. This is a new kind of power that I'm holding over him and I think I'll enjoy it while it lasts. 

Usually, he demands that I handle him roughly, that I leave angry red marks the shape and size of my hands and fingers on his pale flesh. He gets impatient when I don’t mar his skin fast enough, as though he wants more lines and scars to detract from the famous one that he always keeps hidden behind wild fringe. I’ve had to do countless mending charms after we’ve been together, replacing buttons and fixing seams that gave way under our impatient hands. 

It hasn’t been all that long since the last time I’ve had him beneath me, his bare skin slicked with sweat and glowing in the dim lamplight that he always insists on there being, as though he needs to see who he’s with at all times; I’ve never denied him that, since I’ve learned over the years that you never deny a dangerous creature the small things if you want to have any hope of ever getting your way with the larger ones. Much less of surviving the encounter at all. 

But my mind is wandering. Not all that surprising, since being with him always makes it hard for me to keep a thought for more than a few seconds at a time. My thoughts always get fragmented towards the end, when I feel the overwhelming release looming and all I can think is _more need taste touch **god**..._

Either way, the last time I tasted the perfect salt of his skin and breathed the sweet, tangy air of his gasps was less than a day ago. He came to my temporary room in the strangely boring house that we’ve been hiding in, we ragged remnants of the Order, trembling with the need to have my hands and my mouth and my body drive away the fear that lurked in his eyes and threatened to overwhelm him. He had pushed and ordered until my teeth broke the skin on the back of his neck and I felt delicate bones threatening to give way beneath my hands. It had taken me nearly half an hour afterwards to convince him to allow healing spells to mend the worst of the damage he had demanded. 

But this time, when he came to me, it was with tears in his eyes and no desire for the harsh rutting that has been the majority of our time together these past few months. Instead, he only climbed into my bed and curled up into a tight ball of misery as he sobbed out his heartache at finally becoming the hero that our world has always treated him as. He allowed me to hold him in my arms in a way that he’d never had the patience for before and I’d lost myself in the soothing motions of comfort; smoothing his hair, rubbing his arms, murmuring nonsense. 

Then he turned to me and kissed me and then I found myself here, my hands gently skimming over his arms and sides, mapping his body for the places that make him lean into my touch instead of flinching away even as he insists on more. Now, he’s begging me for more, pleading with me to touch him; never having been able to deny him anything that I could give him, big or small, I gladly do as he asks. 

I move down his body, sucking lightly on bits of his skin as I go, being so very careful to never use my teeth. Techniques I’ve honed and relied on for months now are suddenly the antithesis of what I want to give him and what he’s asking me for. Instead of my rough and ragged fingernails, I drag the pads of my fingertips over his skin, my touch sliding and slipping in the sweat that is pooling in the hollows of his body and instead of angry welts of reproach for doing as he has always needed me to before, I feel like I must be leaving a trail of fire in my wake, because my fingers feel as though they must be molten. It’s as though we’re two ingredients to a volatile potion, suddenly mixed under just the right circumstances... oil and water mixing together in a sudden moment of sheer perfection. 

I’ve never been prone to moments of poetry before, but I can’t help myself; he’s so beautiful as he curves his back and pants out needy pleas for more to never stop oh god oh please oh more and just like it’s always been between us, I give him what he wants. Only this time I don’t feel stained for it, I don’t feel as though I’ve defiled something sacred; each breath is perfection and bliss and I am filled with absolution for every sin I’ve committed on his body and in every other aspect of my life up until this moment. 

He’s running his hands all over me, too, and I can’t help the moans that are tumbled from between my lips in between my desperate gasps for breath when he touches places on me that I’ve nearly forgotten about. The insides of my elbows, the hollow just beneath where my shoulder ends and my arm begins, the skin right above my hipbone; only soft touches of fingers and lips in those places get this kind of reaction from me and he’s reducing me to my most basic and needy self and all I can think of is how badly I need more, even though I want this to last for ever in a hazy blur of erotic perfection. 

I know he doesn’t need very much preparation; there have been times when he’s impaled himself on me with spit and very little -- if any -- stretching. I had to heal the torn flesh those times, had to wipe away the evidence of my shameful desecration. Now, as I slide my fingers into him and gently, gently open him up, I feel as though everything before this was perfectly natural, a basis of comparison to show me how the slow and steady I once upon a time took for granted can be just as powerful and shattering as the violence I’ve had with him up until now. 

He pulls me close and kisses me once I’m kneeling between his thighs, his breath hitching not from tears but from the fever-pitched arousal that I’ve brought him without giving him a single glimmer of the usual pain. I break off our kiss only long enough to slide into him with a slow and steady move that I’m surprised I even have the control for. My hands and arms are shaking as I fall forward to kiss him again while I move my hips in a gentle rhythm like a heartbeat in rest. When he opens his mouth, our tongues meet halfway in an almost lazy caress that leaves our breath to mingle in quiet, stuttering puffs. 

We stay this way, slowly and carefully making love in a way that I had never before thought could be possible between the two of us. I’m so very grateful that I’m rather taller than he is, because when I can’t hold back against the inevitable any longer and I speed up, I can keep the connection between our mouths. Now we are sharing moans and groans of blissful pleasure as well as sighs of need and overwhelming desire and it’s beyond the simple word of “perfect.” 

I’m pretty sure I’ve got very little finesse to my movements, so I work my hand between our bodies and touch him; firm strokes up and down that make him cry out softly as he murmurs words I can’t quite catch over the roaring in my ears. Words without any real meaning spill from my lips as I get closer and closer to a peak that almost frightens me with its height, but I still can’t stop help myself from reaching and straining for it. This, I think and maybe I even say it, though I can’t be sure, this is what we need. What he needs. What I need... 

_Oh. Yes. This... this is..._

_Oh._

As clichéd as it is to say, I honestly can see fireworks going off in my vision as every last blessed hair on my body stands on end. Dimly, I’m aware that he’s tensing and sobbing out my name and that I’ve got my face against the taut curve of his neck, slippery from tears that have stubbornly forced their way past my tightly-clenched eyes. I’m ridiculously glad that he can’t see my face, because then I might be tempted to thank him for this, even though he was the one who came to me for comfort and absolution in the first place. 

I feel purged and clean and able to take on the new world that has come rushing up around us, overwhelming everyone in our small world with the sudden possibility of actually having a future. It stuns me to realise as I pull him into my arms that this is something I want in my future, even though I know it won’t always be like this. Chances are quite fair that he’s going to need the violence again. It’s been too much a part of him for me to pretend that it will go away, but at least I can hope that I’ll be enough for him in those times that he needs it. 


End file.
